KMC Forums - the being of a beautiful thing...or not?

thisis the first chapter of a book taht im trying to write. i have 4 chapters of the expected 25 done. i guess im just looking for some feed back and what some of you think. ill post more of the chapters upon request.
My life is a failing transmission!
I tell this to my doctor. The person you tell all your secrets to. In my case it�s a male, age forty-five, and I have been telling him my secrets for three hours, but I am sure he is not listening.
He is the typical physiologist, you know the one, the doctor with the bald head that gives off this ****ing annoying beam of light that blinds you every moment he glances down. The same doctor who watches his hand jotting some scribble in your patient file, uncovering the truth behind you.
Why do I know this?
The same doctor who every tenth decimal of a minute is straightening out his falling eyes due to his brittle eyeglasses that he had tortured for the past five years.
How do I know this?
The same doctor who gives you the �okay� and �um hum� during each pause in your story. He feels that communicating with you during your session will ease your nerves; plus it is a real good pitch to give you to pretend he is listening.
I know this?
Then before I could answer my own questions, he asks me one of his own. What is a failing transmission?
He doesn�t remember�Now I know he is not listening!
I told him before what all this transmission talk means previously in this discussion. In fact I told him this while he and I were rummaging through my childhood, finding the dearest of memories to hold on to, and even before that enlightening experience, we discussed this topic during my first two minutes on the clock. I came into his office, told him I was thinking about suicide, and he asked me why. Really I was just jesting about hte suicide thing, maybe looking for a raise from the poor, hopeless fellow. But I am in the mood for a game so I play along and answer:
I blame my faulty gears. Than I begin to tell him for the third time about the gears of life.
History repeats its self.
So I explain: When I was young, say about nine or so.
�um hum�
I was walking home from my home with my grandfather. This of course is right after my father was arrested for; well I�m still not quite sure what for yet
�ok�
He told me my father was just stuck; he was stuck in third. He told me life is like a racecar, there are five gears and reverse. He said that the first gear is the young years, which I wouldn�t have to worry about because those are the years that you can�t remember. My mother would have to fill you in with all the details.
But I remember them.
�I understand�
He said that second gear was when I was an elementary boy, and third gear was when I was a teenager, which I estimated to be till about twenty-one.
�right�
four gear is when you�re a young adult.
�yeah�
and the fifth gear is when you establish a good paying job and a loving family.
�um hum�
Again�I know he is not listening
I tell my Doc, you see my problem is that I can�t seem to get pasted the fourth gear. I am in a rut. As far as I know I don�t even have a job, nor family for that matter. I am a living disappointment!
At this point I am surprised. A silence. It is either my physiologist is having an epiphany, or he is having a stroke.
My money is on the stroke.
I close my eyes trying to recall the walk home with my grandfather. I remember this experience like it was yesterday. We walked along the street edge kicking the blanket of red and yellow as we discussed my future, my gears. He told me that my father was a bad man, he told me that he is going to be locked up for quite a while for some things he has done, evil things were my only guess. As for my mother, he told me, she is in a better place.
Then I ponder and think about her for a second.
The fact is I have never seen my mother. She is just a ghost in my past; she is a shadow on the wall� my wall. The harder I try thinking of her the more my brain hurts. Every time I try to think of my beloved mother the same thing occurs. But I am not sure if beloved is the right word for her; I am not sure what word is right for her. The only thing that matters is she is not here, she has abandoned me like the rest.
I was deserted.
The truth is my grandfather was a Nascar loving redneck. He told me my life is not worth living, he told me suicide is the only way. But it didn�t matter because that wasn�t my grandfather, it was yours.
I open my eyes to see my doctor stiff on the floor. I was hoping for a reaction, but I expected none. Sometime during my rummaging, as he would say, my forty-five year old physiologist had some sort of stroke. But I already knew this.
The same doctor whose bald head was scraped against the table during his descend.
The same doctor whose brittle glasses lay broken upon his nose.
The same doctor whose scurrying hand is gripping his failed heart.
The same doctor who is dead at my feet.
I�m in fourth gear, I say to my corpse of a doctor. I�m pushing hard, real hard, to stay with the pack, but like I was told before, I am a failure. You know what that feels like I assume? You have had twenty percent of your patients kill themselves, and another twenty-five on top of that, that committed themselves in the loony bin. That�s half of your clientele Mr. Waters.
I think I see his body twitch.
The truth is Mr. Waters is you were a failure. I know all this Mr. Waters, I tell the hundred and ninety pound of dead flesh, because I know and remember everything, your whole life story is circling my mind as we speak. The only problem is, I can�t seem to remember my own past.
Then I note: the gears of life.

some grammer work is required...this im a aware of.